Of Bravery and Selflessness: Four's Story
by soulfulinspiration
Summary: Why is Four's fear of his father so hard to overcome? Why does he hate his father with such a passion? They have quite a history. Canon. Includes corporal punishment of a teenager in later chapters.
1. Conviction

*All characters belong to Veronica Roth

*Contains the severe corporal punishment of a teenager, please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable

This is my first story ever, so please rate and review! Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Chapter 1: Conviction

They've always said we look alike, my father and I. That we have the same smile; our lips curl the same way. What they don't know is that there are two sides to that smile. He puts on that smile for them when he's at the council meetings, and is Marcus the nice, selfless Abnegation they all think he is. His lips curl in the same way, but crueler, for me when when he is Father and boiling with rage and I'm nothing; helpless and at his mercy. I have no mother to protect me; she died long ago. Even if she was still alive, she would not be able to do much. Out of selflessness she would be expected to let Father have control.

Tonight, I went too far. Until I am sixteen I am not to speak unless spoken to at the dinner table, even though there are only two of us. A few more months and I will no longer be considered a child. I fear if I continue to live with my father, he will still to treat me like one.

At dinner he bashed the Erudite for another report they released and I questioned his judgment. I could see his eyes focus on me, the disbelief on his face. We both know what will happen later tonight, perhaps he does more than I .He has been doing the same thing ever since I was about seven or eight years old. The same procedure. The same routine. By now, after 9 years of practice, I've mastered his commands.

"Strip, and wait for me upstairs."

His voice is dead calm and frighteningly even. His lips are ever so slightly curled. He turns around and leaves. I am to follow his exact orders. I always do. Marching upstairs to my room, I regret my actions, my words. I can feel the tears welling up behind my eyes. Closing the door behind me, I slowly peel off the bland, grey clothes I've been wearing all my life. Shirt first, then pants, followed by my socks and underwear. There is no more shame in this, I am accustomed to it–– probably due to frequency.

Growing up in Abnegation I was always,_ always_ taught to think of others before myself. So that is how I saw the situation. My father, the strong-willed Abnegation, was doing this out of selflessness and for me, so I could reciprocate it and take the pain for him. That is what I have always thought. Until recently, when he started sliding out his belt and ordering me upstairs even more often. Even for the tiniest little things. I've begun to question his selflessness and maybe think he isn't as perfect as everyone sees him to be. Everyone, that is, except for the Erudite. They've been spreading rumors and releasing local articles about him for weeks now; about how he is cruel and corrupt. Am I a horrible person for agreeing with them?

I am naked, sitting on my bed and beginning to feel cold. I am nervous. I am scared. Sometimes I wish I could be Dauntless. Fearless. Brave. Every time I sit here and await my fate, I grow more and more nervous as the seconds tick by. He never keeps me waiting for more than 10 minutes, but it always feels like 10 years.

He is not the only parent who disciplines their child in this manner. I know others, but their parents seem to be much more reasonable. They do not get beaten for the smallest of infractions. Their parents sit down and talk to them afterwards, give them a hug. They do it out of love, and they share mutual respect with their children. Father does it out of anger, and I no longer respect him. After tonight, I will hate him.

Suddenly, my heart stops, and starts to beat again, faster and faster. I can hear the footsteps coming upstairs. I am ready. I am selfless. I can take this. I can do it, like I've done a thousand times before. But my courage falters every time.

My door opens, slowly, but steadily. He steps in the room, clad in the same grey outfit I was wearing just minutes ago. There is a fire burning in his eyes, and it frightens me. He looks angrier than ever. I questioned his authority, and to him, it sounded like I agreed with what Erudite had to say about him. Isn't this exactly why I'm driven to agree?

"You... you call yourself my son. Why are you so hard headed? You must learn respect!" his voice booms. "How many times do I need to do this before you learn? Always asking questions and disagreeing with me. You are Abnegation, and yet you cannot even submit to the will of our government, of our own faction, never mind that I'm your father!" He sneers at me. I feel small. I feel weak. I feel desperate. I begin to question myself again, my self-worth. He has this effect on me every single time. I hate him for it, and he hasn't even gotten started.

He continues to yell, and I think of the Choosing Ceremony coming up in a couple months. Luckily, it happens days after my 16th birthday. I will not have to wait much longer. I consider my options. Abnegation, the faction I grew up in. Erudite, the faction I have been taught to hate, but yet I agree with what they say about Father. Dauntless, the faction I envy for their fearlessness. Amity, the faction I could never be in. I am anything but peaceful. And Candor. I have no desire to be honest.

He has finished yelling. It is time.


	2. Preparation

*All characters belong to Veronica Roth

*This story contains the severe corporal punishment of a teenager, please do not read if this makes you uncomfortable

Please rate and review!

Chapter Two: Preparation

"Tobias."

I cannot bring myself to look into his eyes. Not when mine are threatening to overflow with tears. Does a selfless man make his own son feel this way?

"Tobias, LOOK AT ME."

I am trembling. I shift my gaze from my feet to his face. He no longer wears the scowl, but instead is expressionless. It has always scared me how he can go about doing this to his own son without any hint of emotion. I haven't looked directly at him since he entered the room. I failed to notice what he held in his hands: a belt. The same one he's been using for years. When I was younger he made me sit by the table and oil it, to keep it supple and more importantly, painful. Now he does it himself; I do not know why. His eyes follow mine down to the instrument–– the weapon, and I think it is my imagination, but the corners of his mouth curl up, just ever so slightly. I am terrified.

"Remember, son. This is for..."

"_... your own good._" I finish his sentence in my head. Of course he says that. He has never gone once without saying those exact words, in the exact same way. Without meaning, without sincerity. His words are empty, like his intentions. His eyes are the same as always. Blank, expressionless, unreadable. Like black pits.

He motions for me to bend over my bed. This is how it's always been done. I am at his mercy, the way he wants it. I feel vulnerable, defenseless, and weak. The one thing about these punishments is the consistency. They are always more or less the same. Administered in the same way, although the number he assigns and force he uses are determined by my infraction and his mood. Today, my infraction, in his eyes, was dead serious. And with the help of the reports and rumors from Erudite, his mood is at an all-time low.

I walk over slowly and everything feels like it has slowed down. I can hear each of my rugged breaths as if they are amplified and his words echo in my head. For your own good. Is it really? Is it really for my own good, or for your pleasure, your easy access to stress and anger relief. As the days pass on, I believe more and more it is the latter.

I reach the foot of my bed. It is made and neat, as Father expects it to be every morning. By the end of this punishment, I doubt it will be neat anymore. That's alright, because if he lets me go to bed, I will spend all night crying into my sheets as always. Am I a coward? No, I know for a fact that what he does is inhumane. It is cruelty and abuse. I have only seen my welts once, when I sneaked down to take a look in the mirror while he wasn't home, and they were awful. Almost three days old, and still they were raised and my bum was covered in purple, green and red splotches. That morning, I didn't close the cabinet with the mirror properly and got another beating that night for being vain and looking in the mirror. Welts on top of welts. I was in pain for over two weeks. I pray to God this time he will be more lenient this time. I know he will not be.

Kneeling down on the ground, I lay my torso over the bed, presenting my bum at the perfect angle for his belt. I know every procedure, exactly how he wants it. This is a result of doing the same thing over countless times. It is not something to be proud of.

"You will receive twenty-two strokes."

My heart sinks. Twenty-two is the most I've ever gotten. The next highest was 18 and that left me unable to sit for 2 weeks and bruised for 3. My father may be Abnegation, but he is strong. Combined with his anger and that belt, his strength is no match for mine. I will not be able to make it through this.

"Twelve for your utter lack of respect at the dinner table and twelve for questioning my judgment. Since God is graceful, two strokes will be deducted. You know what to do."

I barely hear him, but I do know what to do. He will expect me, as always, to count and thank him. I must be selfless. He is taking his time and energy to do this for me, and I must be thankful. Feeling sick, I nod, and I know he sees me even though he is behind me and I am facing the wall. He expects me to take it in silence and not move. To be in control. I doubt myself this time. This time, I do not know what lies ahead.


	3. Retribution

*All characters belong to Veronica Roth

*This chapter contains the severe corporal punishment of a teenager, please do not read if this upsets you

Please rate and review!

Note to readers: Just a side note for those of you who find Four weak. In my head, this is how Marcus treats Four, or in this case, Tobias, to make him fear and resent his father so much. I realize that in the novel, Four comes off as super tough and brave, and in this story, he is the opposite. However, this story takes place when Four is just fifteen, and has known no other life but Abnegation. He is similar to Tris when she first joins Dauntless, weak and scared. Please understand that this is supposed to be the experience that drives him to seek out fearlessness.

Chapter Three: Retribution

I bury my face into the pillow that lies on my bed and wait for whatever comes next. I can hear his calm breaths behind me and my own heart pounding, threatening to jump out of my chest. I am ridden with fear; my own cowardice sickens me. Behind me, Father speaks.

"Are you ready, son?"

I take a shaky breath in, and roughly exhale. I am as ready as I'll ever be. My voice catches as I answer.

"Yes, sir."

I hear footsteps behind me. The lead-up. He gets more power into it this way, more force. To make it hurt more. I think of my mother and what she would think of all this. Not that it would matter.

Thwack! The leather collides with my flesh in a moment of hot-white pain. The first stroke never fails to shock me. Even though my last whipping was less than three weeks ago, I have already forgotten the pain that the belt causes. This is number one. Number one out of 22. I almost forgot to count. That results in extra strokes.

"One, sir. Thank you, sir." I say quickly through clenched teeth, hoping that he will accept it.

He does, because I hear footsteps again. They come towards me, faster, and thwack! That's two, I tell myself frantically. Two, two, two. Twenty more to go. Twenty more, and I will be free.

"Two, sir. Thank you, sir."

Number three I anticipate, and I am scared. I am in pain. It hurts, it really does. I regret what I said so much. So very much. Footsteps. Thwack!

"Three, sir. Thank you, sir."

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Four, sir. Thank you, sir."

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Five, sir. Thank you, sir."

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Six, sir. Thank you, sir."

At this point, My breathing is so unstable, half the time I am holding my breath. I can feel the hear in my face and the tension throughout my body. I have to resist the temptation to reach back. That would result in ugly consequences. Not that this isn't ugly already. Fourteen more to go.

This time, the footsteps do not come with the regular cadence. Instead, he whips down twice in a row. Fast, in sequence. I have no time to register number seven before number eight comes crashing down.

"Arghh." A groan escapes my lungs.

"Silence," he hisses.

He is waiting for something. I realize instantly: I still haven't counted.

Quickly, again, I say, "seven, sir. Thank you, sir."

I am being sloppy. If I don't pay more attention, I will get extras. But how can I pay attention right now? My head is throbbing, pounding all the thoughts out of my brain.

"Eight, sir. Thank you, sir."

The next five come at a regular cadence.

Footsteps. Thwack! Footsteps. Thwack! Footsteps. Thwack! Footsteps. Thwack! Footsteps. Thwack!

I remember to count each one as soon as it hits.

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Four... fourtteen, sir. Thank you, sir."

This pain is unendurable. I have no air, I have nothing tethering me to consciousness. It's never been this bad. My entire backside is on fire, burning, burning.

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Ahhhh..._ take deep breaths_... fifteen, sir. Thank you, sir."

So far, I have made minimal noise. I have been gasping for air, but not vocalizing. Crying out results in extra strokes too. Strokes that I cannot afford to have to endure right now. Not if I want to live to see tomorrow.

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Si-sixteen, sir. Thank you, sir."

But this is how I always think. During a punishment, I always feel like I will not live through it. I always do. But this time I am sure. The pain is too much, and I still have six, painful strokes ahead of me.

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Sev-sev..." I cannot finish. The tears have overflowed and are flowing freely down my cheeks. My breath stops in my throat. I cannot go any further. I am weak. I am cowardly.

My father makes a "tsk tsk" sound behind me. I close my eyes in dread. I know exactly what that sound means. It means I'll be getting...

"...three extras, Tobias. I'll make sure they count," he says. Not grimly, I note. Instead of going to 22 I have 25 now. The end of this punishment seems like a lifetime away.

Footsteps. Thwack!

I muster up all the energy I have left. I will get through this. "Eighteen, sir. Thank you, sir." I say it loud and clear as I can, but the tears can be heard through my voice, I am sure of it.

Footsteps. Thwack!

"Nineteen, sir. Thank you, sir." I groan inwardly. My hands are aching to reach back and rub some of the pain away. But I cannot. I cannot no matter what. Instead. I interlock my fingers and press them on the back of my head, forcing my face into the mattress even more. Maybe this will suppress my screams.

He does not take steps this time. I can hear the leather slice through the air and I hear it collide with my skin before I am consumed in a world of searing pain for the twentieth time tonight. A sob escapes me. And another. He gives me a moment. He knows that was a hard one. I collect myself. I am almost there. Maybe I can make it.

"Tw-twen-twenty... sir. Thank you, sir."

This is it. These are the last five. He always makes these the hardest. On top of twenty welts and countless bruises will be the five hardest strokes I have ever gotten. He wants me to remember these. I can feel him behind me. He clears his throat.

"Five more. Five more, and we are finished for tonight, Tobias. You have done well." Well? Ha. If I were in less pain, I probably would have snorted out loud. He continues, "these five, as you know, will be memorable. I want you to give me a reason as to why we are doing this and ask me for the strap."

I expected as much. This is one of his cruel ways of getting me to be an "active part of my own punishment." I have to think of five reasons why I am being whipped, even if they are non-existent.

Number One:

"Strap me for being disrespectful."

Footsteps. Thwack!

Another sob. I breathe in.

"Twenty-one, sir. Thank you, sir."

Number Two:

"Strap me for disobeying your previous orders."

Footsteps. Thwack!

A fresh wave of tears spills over my face. It hurts so much.

"Twenty-two, sir. Thank you, sir."

Number Three:

"Strap me for speaking at the dinner table without being spoken to."

Footsteps. Thwack!

I exhale so roughly, it comes out as a cough. The pain is causing tremors through my body. I cannot take this kind of abuse.

"Twenty-three, sir. Thank you, sir."

Number Four:

"Strap me for doubting your opinions on those who are against you."

Footsteps. Thwack!

I go completely limp. There is no more resisting. I hang on the brink of consciousness.

"Tw-twenty-f-f-four, sir... Thank you, sir."

Number Five:

"Strap me for agreeing with the Erudite."

The blow does not come, but instead, I slip into darkness.


	4. Trepidation

*All characters belong to Veronica Roth

Please review, constructive criticism is always appreciated since this is my first story ever :)

Chapter 4: Trepidation

The first thing I notice is the pounding in my head, as if my heart had moved up to my brain. It felt like someone was repeatedly smashing my head against a wall over and over to the rhythm of my heartbeat. I am on some cushioned surface, but I don't know what. As I open my eyes, I realize that I'm sprawled on my bed and almost falling off the edge. How long have I been out? My body feels so sore, so worn out. I feel like my aching muscles belong to an old man. Still lying down, I carefully reach back and gingerly brush my fingertips across my bottom. A fresh pang of pain travels through me and I let out a small groan. These next few weeks will be hell sitting down and even just moving around.

Opening my eyes for the first time since I woke up, I try to push myself up into a sitting position, but a wave of nausea comes over me and I taste bile in my mouth. How long has it been since I've eaten? That night it happened, I barely ate. I was too frightened. How did it even end?

And then I remember. I was counting those last five strokes, and I said something. Something that made him stop, maybe out of disbelief, or even deeper rage. After that, I remember nothing.

Right, I openly admitted to him that I agreed with the Erudite. I am furious at myself. Even at the time, in my state of pain and in no position to be thinking, I should never have said that. What's wrong with me? I cannot even begin to imagine his reaction. Did he knock me out, or was it just perfect timing that I lost consciousness before anything happened? Or maybe something did happen, I just didn't know. I know one thing: I don't want to wait to see him and find out.

For the second time, I try to get up. Slower this time, propping my body up on my elbows before slowly but steadily coming to a half-upright position, trying to keep the weight of my backside. Even on the mattress, it hurts. I know there are not only welts on the surface of my skin, but deep bruises as well. Those stay the longest. Finally feeling stable and only slightly dizzy, I slowly make up into a standing position. Uncomfortably shuffling to the other side of the room, I grab my grey robes since I'm still unclothed. Putting them on, I think of where my father could possible be. Is he downstairs? Why is it so quiet?

People always tell me things about my mother. I remember her vaguely; her laugh, the way her brown wavy hair framed her face. I can't remember her voice no matter how hard I try though. That's what they always say: their sound of their voice fades over time. Family friends who knew her before she passed giving birth to my sister have told me that I have her eyes. The thought of it makes me happy since Father has the coldest, most lifeless I think I've ever seen. I find myself wondering what kind of person my mother was. All my memories of her feel warm and happy though, the complete opposite of the memories I have of my father. If she was the person I remember her to be, why would she ever marry someone like Father? Did he become this way after her death? You'd think that since he is the only family I have left and vice versa, we'd be closer. We are everything but close.

I pull my pants up to my waist, careful not to touch any tender areas. Should I go downstairs? What if he's there? Poking my head out of the room, I glance at the clock in the hallway. It's 6:24 in the evening. I have no idea what time it was last night when I passed out, but I'd guess it was somewhere around 11:30. That means I was out for... that's impossible. I normally never sleep that much. Well, last night was not at all normal, and I don't know how much of the time I was actually sleeping and not unconscious. Are the two synonymic?

My stomach is grumbling and it's too quiet for anyone to be home downstairs. If he's there, I don't know what I would do. Or what he has planned. The worst that could happen would be a repeat of last night–– happen tonight. Please, God, please, no.

In our small, Abnegation house, there is only simple, practical furniture and white walls. We do not need fancy decorations or colored walls. We must live the simple life, as our manifesto declares. Going down the stairs is much more difficult than I thought it would be, and it takes me about 3 minutes to edge down step by step. Each time my foot lands on the next step, the pain reactivates. I try not to think about the journey back upstairs. I cannot get it out of my head what will happen when I see Father again, what I said was inexcusable and a complete betrayal of not only Abnegation, but him.

Stepping off the last stair, I make it to the kitchen in a few steps. The fridge is almost empty, as usual. I don't know why we all have such big refrigerators when they never even reach half-full. I take out some oatmeal and warm it over the stove. We don't eat for taste, just to sustain ourselves. Good food is being self-indulgent. I have no problem with the ways of life here. The problem I have with Abnegation is that people allow others to step all over them, supposedly out of selflessness. That's when people like Father take advantage of others. Does he do cruel things to others, or just me?

I eat standing up, sitting is out of the question. With a mouthful of oatmeal, I look at the calendar. There is a note on today's date.

DINNER WITH THE PRIOR FAMILY, 5:00 PM

That would explain his absence. As a member of the government, Father often goes to have dinner with other families. He never allows me to come with him. As a matter of a fact, he doesn't allow me to attend community events or have friends over either. He limits any communication I have with the outside world. I've gotten used to it by now, I've never questioned why. I suppose it's so I don't have the chance to tell people what he does to me.

The Priors are a nice family. I know they have two children. I have spoken to Caleb once, he is the older brother, but only by less than a year. I have never seen his sister, although I think he's mentioned her name once or twice. I can't remember. Their parents are nice people, Mr. Prior is a council member, and his leadership has also been questioned by the Erudite. In his case, however, I think the Erudite are wrong.

Just as I finish my last bit of oatmeal, I hear a creak and a thud. He's home.


End file.
